Do Be Afraid Of The Dark
Dawn They say that even the strongest man can be broken, it is only a matter of time. Time can bring anything, it can bring great destruction, or horrible creation. It is only a matter of when, for it is running out. You can hear it if you listen closely. Listening, not for sound, not for ticking. But for the sound of cracking. - It was a morning, and it had windows with dark blue curtains swaying slightly from the morning winds shyly blowing through the open panels. It had a bed, complaining in it’s own creaky language as he tossed and turned before he got up. He knew it was going to be a day. He got dressed in his best jumper and trousers and sat down at the table. He counted the bricks like he did every day, for they brought a sense of security. No matter what uncertainty the world brought, the bricks always remained the same. The house was very old. According to legend, it was the first house built on earth. The house was round, without any corners to bring misfortune, for he needed no more. There was a fireplace in the northernmost wall, filled with the ashes of yesterday. The bed was on the opposite end, framed by two windows. To the right of the bed stood a proud old oak table, with two chairs. Beside the table was a small kitchen counter. To the left was the door, a dresser stood loyal by it’s side. The round walls carried shelves filled with old books. He was the writer of the round house, for the furniture was not able to. His name was Léon. And Léon counted one brick too much. Rumbling was heard from the sky, like the darkest keys of a piano. Rain started falling shortly after, and the soil was painted a darker hue. The rainfall hung like heavy grey drapes outside the windows. Léon sat by his table reading when lightning struck outside his windows and the world flashed in white for a brief moment. He knew it was time. He went to his dresser and opened it to reveal a row of neatly hung clothes. He reached behind them and pulled out a backpack which he quickly put on. He walked up to the front door, took a deep breath, and swung it open. The rain clawed at his face and the winds chilled him to the bone. He walked the mud path for a third of an eternity, he could barely see in front of him but he felt the muddy path swallow his shoes with every step. He felt the rain let up, slowly becoming less intense, and long after that it was gone. He saw the path and he saw the enormous pine trees on the sides. The air smelt of damp earth and the insects were playing their instruments. Far ahead he could vaguely make out a clearing below the soft sunset. After a page of time passed, he came upon a lake. It was now dark and the full moon watched him as he removed his backpack. He knelt down at the edge of the water and scooped a bit of the lake into the backpack. He closed it and swung it onto his back. He looked up at the soup of stars and glitter dust that was the night sky. He breathed it in, and walked back to the round house. Once home, he opened the backpack and placed the piece of the lake on the table. He admired it, the algae on the bottom in the sand. The small fish, silently swimming in their own world, and the water moving in small waves. He went over to his desk and sat down at the old wooden chair, he placed a nightmare candle on the table and lit it. He opened his book laying on the table and started writing a strange poem that came sneaking and tiptoeing into his mind. 'There was once a man who walked away, down down a dirty old way. He looked and searched and hoped for gold, but all he held was the wind at his bones. The wind was singing a cheerful tone, as the man walked on down alone. He saw the light and in his sight, a house of glass, upon a hill of brass. He took a look and stared in awe, he could not believe that of what he saw. And as the light of dawn rained down, he entered the house wearing the night’s gown. Thousands of sundrops spiralled and rained, a golden shine and happiness he gained. Breathstealing dances and golden brass, rained upon him mirrored in glass. He found in thought that there was nowhere to be, than in this heaven, true that must be. He thought about the words of the writing. If happiness had a form in the world that you could see, and perhaps even touch, then it might have been something like glass. It is quite fragile and people hardly take notice, unless it reflects light, and even then people are usually quite annoyed. Only change the angle slightly, and there it is. He closed the aged book carefully and felt tired. He went to bed, the nightmare candle fuelling his dreams, burning with faint whispers. - Léon awoke in an icy blanket drenched in his cold sweat. His breath made tiny clouds and he tasted salt in his mouth. He pondered what could be wrong as a sense of dread washed over him and he looked over at the table. His gut dropped and his heart skipped a beat, the nightmare candle had burned out while he slept. The atmosphere had changed drastically, a new darkness hung over the room and the air was clammy. His lungs fought hard to breathe short breaths. The table had changed. It was now rotting, it was filled with holes and worms were spilling out of them. The table was like a house of cards, and he felt that a single breath would cause it to collapse, scattering the worms all over the floor. He was grateful and thanked his lucky moons that it was only the table so far, It hadn’t gotten further and that meant he still stood a chance. The temperature dropped lower and he started shivering. He felt the blood, almost freezing in his veins. He had to act quickly, he knew what it meant and he was afraid. He tried to assess the world and he looked out the windows at the day. The darkness stared back at him with eyes, hungry like a spider’s. He threw his blanket off and ran for his backpack as fast as he was humanly able to. He scrambled and fumbled through the contents like his life depended on it, for it did, and he found a box of matches. He ran to his desk and got hold of a candle while all he could hear was the loud heartbeat in his ears. He lit the candle and finally breathed out shakily. He made it, It hadn’t had a chance to devour him yet. Maybe, he thought, maybe he could make it. Maybe he could ride the darkness to tomorrow, out of the nightmare. The nightmare candle, he had left it burning. He wanted to shake himself, hard. How could he have forgotten, and failed Them? His thoughts were interrupted as the candle flame flickered. He only had a stump of it left, it wouldn’t last long as protection. He took a hatchet from the wall and clumsily strung it on to his backpack with one hand. He hadn’t even gotten dressed, for he did not dare to let go of the candle for even a second. He swung the backpack onto his bare back, clutching the flame. He needed light to ward Them off, he was sure that he would be caught in the inferno if he was to torch his own house, and he had heard from one man that brick houses do not burn. He walked up to the front door, and dreading the outside world he put a sweaty hand upon the handle. He felt a pinching pain and he realised that the handle was frozen, ice. His palm had stuck, the ice fusing with the skin. He opened the door and took a deep breath. He ripped his hand away, screaming silently in pain for he didn’t want to draw Them near. The skin was forcefully ripped off and it started bleeding, patting down on his wooden floor. He had to go, now. He ran outside into the darkness of the day and it swallowed him whole and threatened to devour him alive had it not been for the candle. He ran along a path that he had walked many times and his blood left a bread crumb trail, following him wherever he went. His bare feet slammed on the soil and it was cold. The sound of crickets had escaped the moment he lit the nightmare candle and he wished he was with them, somewhere else. Somewhere peaceful. He came to a stop at a small clearing surrounded by heavy forest and the soft grass gave his feet a rest. He looked around frantically with the waves of panic becoming higher as the candle was running out. He threw the backpack off and ran, hatchet in hand to the smallest tree he saw but he stumbled and almost fell before steadying himself against it. His feet were suddenly on fire, and he looked down to see the Darkness gnawing at his toes hungrily, his flesh becoming blue and rotten as it ate. He screamed and tried to shake it off, but it was all around him, in the Darkness and it grew as the candle slowly died. He had to hide in the light, and quickly. He took a swing at the tree one handedly and the wood creaked angrily but it didn’t give in. He felt the eating continue up to his ankles and he screamed as he took another swing, finally breaking the tree. He threw the hatchet into the dark and shakily took the wood and dragged it over to his backpack, limping on his eaten feet. He gathered his belongings and torched all of them with the candle. The fire flared up and the dark was forced to retreat from his body and he cried of joy. He fell to his knees and sat down in the grass by the fire, his feet were gone but he was alive. He stared into the fire and dreamed away from the nightmare he had brought upon the day. He hoped to hold out until the night, until dawn. He cried and prayed for hours on end to whomever might listen, now and then picking up twigs from the grass around him and feeding the fire. He wanted nothing more than for the sun to rise, how he had taken it for granted and how wonderful it was. It kept the monsters away and it brought the warmth. He felt calmer now, the stretching hands of the Darkness could not reach him as long as he had the fire. The comfort was broken as Léon heard whispering in the far distance. It was whispering of the fate They would give him, of the things that should not be known to man. It was millions of different voices and he started to shake in fear but kept his focus on staring at the flames. He tried to be brave. Then he heart it. Footsteps, thousands of them from every direction and he froze. Tears began to form in his eyes and he counted to ten and backwards in a fickle attempt to not be afraid. He started to panic. The fire was dying. He couldn’t leave the light circle to scavenge for more fuel or It would eat him. He took of his underwear and threw it into the flames, hoping to buy him a few more minutes before he would meet his grotesque fate. His heart stopped as he listened. They were coming, and this time, they were running. The whispers turned into high pitched screams filled with terror and pain. He wondered, would he be a scream, a footstep in the next nightmare? He stared at the fire so intensely that it nearly blinded him, he didn’t want to see. Anything but to see them. He heard them stop at the tree lines around him in the clearing. He could hear their stomachs grumbling and he could feel their hungry eyes on his skin. He froze in place, he did not move a muscle. He did not look, he stared at the dying fire and hoped to hell that dawn would come. His body was ice and the fear had him in an iron grip. The fire spat and it landed in dry grass a few feet away. It flared up and in seconds the entire grass was burning. Léon felt his body being licked by the flames and it spread just like wildfire to the trees and at the same time his fire died. He closed his eyes. He heard Them wander into the clearing and he felt their cold breath upon his neck. Cracking noises were echoing and he wondered if the forest was engulfed in hellfire. His eyes registered the bright light while they were still closed and his body was burning. And then suddenly it stopped. He slowly opened his eyes and then he screamed. He saw the hands. Thousands of hands carved in ice were reaching for his flesh, millimetres away from tearing into him and eating the warmth. Then he saw their faces. They resembled humans, made of ice. Their bodies were distorted and it was like wax dolls, that had melted and been stirred up like a soup. They had stopped frozen in their tracks. The fire, he though. The fire was frozen. All the trees were burning inside ice crystals, as if time had stopped and swept over the world and encased it in ice. And then he saw it, the first shy light of dawn. It had come at last. It rose as a small star above the tree lines and eventually it rose majestically as a globe of fire, illuminating the frozen world. The nightmare was over. The ice reflected the light in thousands of microscopic mirrors and prisms. The world had become a rain of ice blue and golden fire. He could not take his gaze away for this was heaven after the nightmare. The frozen flames were molten gold encased in crystals of glass and the embers of the ground glowed. The world was glittering and he felt at peace. He laid down upon the bed of frozen fire and it was warm. Warm like a bed. He thanked the dawn for giving him the light, the happiness reflected in the ice. His eyelids became heavy and he closed his eyes slowly. And exhausted, he rested until the beginning of eternity. Under the creatures in icy glass, upon his burning hill of ember brass. Category:Poetry